Shades of Light
by DreamersScape
Summary: One spring day, Allan A Dale is saved by a hooded stranger. He had no idea that this chance meeting would forever alter the course of his life.


Disclaimer: I don't hold any rights to Robin Hood or anything from the show. All of that belongs to BBC and Tiger Aspect. Blah di blah di blah...

I'd like to give a huge thanks to my beta Traveller19 for all her help making this spick and span and for encouraging me to make this story happen. Many thanks also go to LadyKate1 for her consultation with a particular section from this chapter.

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><p>Chapter One: Crossed Paths<p>

'_Things need not have happened to be true. Tales and adventures are the shadow truths that will endure when mere facts are dust and ashes and forgotten.' _-Neil Gaiman

"_Why should I ask the wise men: Whence is my beginning? I am busy with the thought: Where will be my end?" _-Muhammad Iqbal

"_It is by chance that we met, by choice that we became friends." _–Henri Nouwen

_Looks like today's my lucky day._

A triumphant smile spread across Allan A Dale's lips as he sighted the doe down the length of the arrow nocked in his recently-nicked bow. The deer wasn't particularly large, but that was probably fortuitous; it would make for an easier journey to the next town or hamlet where he could sell it for a little profit. To be sure, it wouldn't be too difficult to find someone willing to overlook how legally the animal had been obtained. With some coin at his disposal, he could turn his efforts to his more preferred way of earning an income. One that involved a pliable crowd of tavern-goers, a well-worn set of cards or cups, and a warm, hearty trencher of food with a mug of ale at his elbow. One that might even entail a soft bed to sleep in after a successful day of swindling, instead of the unforgiving ground of the forest.

The jingling of a horse's harness from behind shook him from his pleasant imaginings, and steeling himself, Allan turned to behold his predicament. In his preoccupation, an entire patrol of guards dressed from head to toe in black - whoever ran the shire he was currently in must be rather drab, he thought idly—seemed to have materialized right at his back.

_Maybe not so lucky, _Allan mused with a wry twist of his lips_. Well, nothing for it, now._

And with that, Allan a Dale, would-be poacher, made a break for it.

He dashed across the dry, leaf-strewn forest floor, dodging still-mostly-dead trees and bushes as he made his way up and over a slight rise. Scanning the sparse terrain, his eyes found no sign of a hidey-hole, and the horse-mounted guards were gaining ground with every second. His heart beat wildly and he desperately pushed his legs to go even faster, to match the cadence in his chest that seemed to pound with greater frequency than even the hoof-beats of his pursuers' steeds. It was no use; the futility of his effort dogged his every stride along with the patrol. The snuffling of the horses continued to grow louder until it was all Allan could hear and all he could feel was their hot, moist breath on his neck. Fortune was _really_ not on his side today.

Then, just up ahead, he spotted a thick patch of undergrowth that the horses would not be able to navigate through and would slow up the men long enough for him to escape. Allan dived for it.

_Too_ thick, as it turned out. Allan scrambled to worm his way through to safety, but the sharp, spindly branches snagged on his cloak and already rough hands were grabbing him, forcibly dragging him backward. Two men gripped his arms firmly as they marched him toward the leader of the lot. Still, Allan struggled against the strong holds. If he could just get free—

"Hold him!" The captain of the guard snapped. Training his eyes on Allan, he said, "You know the law."

Out of the corner of his right eye, Allan saw one of the men smirk and run a finger over the edge of an axe_. No!_ Fear and panic roiled in his stomach, and with little thought, Allan told the captain just what he thought of the law.

Undeterred, the captain continued, "The price for one of the King's deer is your right hand."

The guard on his right side began to shove him forward. "Let's go."

Allan dug his heels into the ground and clutched frantically for a delay, a distraction, _anything. "_N-no, please! 'Ave mercy, my wife…"

"What?"

"My wife expects a child. We 'ave no food. She must eat or we-we'll lose the baby!"

The captain looked down at him disparagingly, "And then when she has the baby, you will say you must steal because you have another mouth to feed. Bring him!"

"Please, no! I need my 'and!" Struggling with sheer desperation now, he nearly succeeded in wrenching his right arm free. _Fat lot of good that'll do me_, Allan thought grimly; his chances of escaping with this number of men surrounding him were basically nonexistent. Didn't stop him from trying, in any case.

"We can punish you now." The captain said, clearly annoyed by Allan's persistence. "If you admit your guilt and save us the time, the punishment is lessened. We can take a finger. But you will have no right to trial, no defense, no appeal."

The man with the axe was already smiling halfway through his superior's spiel; as if he already knew what Allan would choose and was relishing the thought of the resultant maiming that would apparently be his task. It made Allan want to take the trial, as pointless as it would be, if only to deny this oaf his fun. Allan quashed the impulse quickly; he was nothing if not practical, even in the midst of the horror of his available choices. He couldn't deal with the added complication of trying to get by down a hand right now, not to mention the more fatal possibilities inherent in having one's hand cut off…

"I would lose at trial, and my 'and." Turning his head away from the condescending countenances of the guards, Allan clenched his eyes shut. _A finger could still…_ "Take the finger."

With a terse "do it" from their leader, the guards led Allan to a nearby fallen tree where he was eagerly instructed to splay his hand on the wood, complete with a cheery demonstration by Axe-Man. The sight of fingers-not even his own—in close proximity to the weapon that would so shortly come down on his own hand caused Allan to blanch and he tried to back-peddle. "No. I've changed my mind."

"No appeal." Axe-Man reminded him. His right arm was tugged forward, and Allan automatically wrestled it away from the axe's vicinity, not able to take his eyes off the hand still resting on the trunk. _Thunk! _An arrow suddenly embedded itself into the wood between two of Axe-Man's fingers, swiftly followed by two more. The guard exclaimed, but barely had time to react further before an additional two arrows landed next to his wrist. "Who's there?" He shouted.

A voice floated to them from somewhere nearby. "Seems I missed your hand. Let him go before my aim improves."

_What?_

"Show yourself! You interfere with the law of the land!" The captain called, nudging his mount forward a few steps.

About twenty-five yards in front of Allan, a man stepped out from behind a tree, a dark hood pulled low over his face. "The last time I looked, the law punished poaching with a tanning or a spell in the stocks."

"The law is under threat and must be severe if it is to be respected."

Stepping closer and loosely loading another arrow in a strangely-shaped bow, the man in the hood countered, "If the law wants respect, shouldn't the punishment fit the crime?"

Allan looked between the two men, incredulous. Not to say he wasn't grateful for the moratorium on his sentence, but were these two really bandying about the validity of his fate like they were haggling over the price of fruit? If the earlier show of shooting prowess was anything to go by on the part of the hooded man, why not use _that_ to change the guards' minds? Even then, Allan couldn't quite believe that one man would be able to deal with the entire lot. _Why is he so keen to help me anyway_? _Who is this bloke?_

"I do not make the law. I do not decide." The captain was saying.

"No, but you enforce it. And my men and I _suggest_ you decide to go on your way." The brush all around the clearing rustled, giving credence to the man's claim. A smile tugged at the corner of Allan's mouth. _Now, that's more like it. Looks like the mysterious hooded stranger has a band of archers up his sleeve._

The goons on either side of Allan took a step back, anxiously swiveling their heads around trying to spot the reinforcements. "They've got us surrounded, sir!" Another guard alleged. Discretely, Allan readied himself; with the guards distracted, this could be his best chance at a getaway.

The captain narrowed his eyes uncertainly, "I don't know—"

"You know!" the stranger replied, jerking his bow to the sky and firing.

The captain scrunched up his face as he surveyed the sky, questioning, "and what does that prove?" Just as he turned back towards the hooded man, the arrow abruptly landed point-down in the saddle, less than a foot from the captain's face, causing the man to recoil in shock.

"Missed again," the stranger quipped.

_Ha, nice one!_ Eyebrows raised in amusement, Allan turned to give a smug look to the captain, who promptly ordered his men to let him go. He shrugged off the hands of the guards as well as the dread of the last several minutes, and with newfound exuberance, grinned at his liberator. "God bless you, sir. God bless you all, gents!" He added and, not wasting any time, beat a hasty exit.

* * *

><p>Allan's stomach gurgled in an unpleasantly hollow manner in the late afternoon hours of the next day. In his rush to evade capture, he had dropped his bow when he had first sprinted away from the guards yesterday, and now he was really feeling the loss of the weapon. Last night he had only been able to scrounge up a few berries that were not yet ripe along with some dodgy-looking mushrooms that he had eaten anyway. He had gone to sleep unsatisfied and hadn't woken up feeling any better.<p>

But now, things were starting to break his way again. Presently, he lay sprawled on his unhappy belly in a thicket overlooking a village that he had happened upon, Allan worried at his lip as he debated his options. Somehow, he got the sense it wasn't a thriving community, so his best bet for filling his stomach would most likely be the manor house. He would sneak around back, find his way to the kitchens, and charm one of the serving maids for a loaf or two of bread, and maybe some of whatever dish they had cooking for their lord…

_Hang on. What's this?_

Allan studied a growing stream of villagers heading in the direction of the manor he had just been staking out. Children ran ahead or pulled on their parents' hands to urge them on faster. Curious, and seeing his opening, Allan skidded down the incline and blended into the crowd.

* * *

><p>He was wrong; things weren't just breaking his way, he was practically <em>swimming<em> in good fortune! For some reason unbeknownst to him, it seemed the whole village had been invited to eat to their heart's content here by the lord of the estate—a lord that wasn't even in attendance. Allan didn't stop to dwell on the explanation for the free fare, but cheerfully grabbed a seat in a corner and began scarfing down mouthful after mouthful of pork, cheese, bread, honeyed apples and pears—anything in sight, really.

Before long, his caution caught up to his hunger and he slowed his consumption, throwing a wary eye around the room. No one paid him any mind; in fact, it looked like these people needed a good meal as much as he did. The children devoured their supper as eagerly as him, and many of the adults spent as much time watching the youngsters as eating themselves, as though they weren't completely sure this was real, but content that for tonight at least, their little lad or lass would fall asleep with a full stomach. Allan shifted in his seat, suddenly feeling very much the outsider.

Casting about for a distraction to his unwelcome thoughts, his gaze fell on a family huddled together across the room. A father and two sons, by the look of them. Allan continued on; there wasn't anything different about the trio that should stand out from the other families. Not finding anything of interest to preoccupy him though, he went back to munching on the fresh, light bread. But soon he found his eyes pulled back to the same three people. The younger of the two boys rapidly quizzed his father, while intermittently gesturing as though drawing a bow; the father laid an affectionate hand on the boy's shoulder as he patiently fielded his son's questions; and the older boy, not much more than a few years younger than Allan, sat back, quietly taking in what both of the others were saying. Allan felt a sort of hollow ache gnaw at the insides of his chest that had nothing to do with his now-full belly. He blinked, taken aback by the feeling. The small family had the slightly drawn, haggard appearance that seemed common among these villagers, but they looked happy enough. There should be nothing about the scene to bother him. Allan mentally shook himself and gave a snort of annoyance. He was being daft. _What do I care about one little happy family? ___Sharing the same blood doesn't mean you can count on 'em. _It's better just to look after yourself.  
><em>

A commotion from the doorway brought his attention back to the present. A group of four uniformed guards had come in and were now hauling a teenage boy out in front of them expectantly. The boy looked around the room, then back to the guards and shuffled his feet, but at the men's insistence, he motioned to the two boys that Allan had been observing just moments before. Immediately, two of the armed men seized the brothers and began to shove them towards their fellows and the exit, leaving the father half-standing, one arm out-stretched in front of him, alone.

As soon as the soldiers were gone, the room came to life with the murmuring of hushed conversations and angry mutterings. Allan swallowed, stunned by the swiftness of the arrests. Although these men couldn't be aware of his actions and their lack of punishment of the previous day, Allan decided to not push his luck by sticking around. Slipping another hunk of bread under his cloak and stealing one last glance at the father, he ducked out the back.

* * *

><p>The following day dawned overcast and gloomy, and the town—Nottingham, he had gathered—at which Allan found himself proved just as dreary as the weather. The high, gray walls bordering the town loomed over the cramped conditions of the destitute camped outside, washing out the colors from the already-listless populace. Not wanting to tarry, Allan quickened his step. He planned to head for the nearest tavern, but first a stop by the market was called for so as to spot a susceptible mark. The safest and most lucrative method for pulling one over on a mug necessitated losing some rounds in the beginning to ensure the punter's continued trust in his ability to win, making it more likely for him to keep betting, and less likely for the blame to fall on Allan at the inevitable loss. That meant he needed at least a few coins to establish himself.<p>

Allan lacked the smooth and seemingly effortless efficiency that his brother, Tom, had possessed for thievery, but he did have a excellent eye for picking whom to steal from, making him nearly as proficient. Assessing Nottingham's marketplace yielded unsatisfactory results, however. The place was largely vacant, meaning it would be all the more difficult to appear inconspicuous. On the upside, Allan easily found his mark; A young lady in a fancy, fur-lined cloak. It looked as though she stopped at almost every stall to purchase something or other; clearly she was a nob that did not want for anything. One lost purse would not cause her any strife.

Strolling casually down the girl's side of the street and opting for the 'bump and grab' approach, Allan knocked his shoulder against hers, letting one hand come up to steady her as the other went for her purse. "Sorry, m'lady," he said contritely, pretending to straighten his cloak as he tucked the pouch of money out of sight. Holding back a pleased smile, Allan turned to leave, only to have a sharp tug on his arm genuinely make him stagger. "Wha—"

"I believe you have something of mine?" said the girl, eyebrows raised.

Falling back into character, Allan widened his eyes. "Forgive me, m'lady. I'm not sure what you mean."

"Don't be a fool. I am not blind. You have my purse hidden in that cloak of yours." Although her look was piercing and her tone was brisk, the words were not spoken unkindly.

Sighing, Allan retrieved the bag and held it out.

"Good. Now—"

"Lady Marian. Is everything alright?" A tall man in black flanked by two guards strode toward them.

Allan's stomach plummeted and he swallowed thickly, realizing the position he was in. Both he and the noble girl had frozen in place as they turned to the source of the voice; his hand stretched out with the purse still clutched in it, hers reaching for it while still maintaining her firm grip on his other wrist. In the next second, the man in black's eyes flickered down from the girl's face to their strange arrangement. Allan made to run, but the man was quicker, calling his men on him, who seized him before he had taken three steps.

"Take him to the dungeons." The man ordered.

"Sir Guy, I-"

"Do not worry, Marian. I will make sure that this thief is punished. Now, may I escort you to the castle? The Council of Nobles will be starting soon."

'Lady Marian' threw a glance in Allan's direction over her shoulder, but then nodded to the man. _Looks like we're both being led to the castle in style, _Allan thought darkly as the guards towed him behind.

* * *

><p>Allan leaned his head back against the wall of his prison cell and heaved a sigh. He couldn't say he was all that surprised to wind up here; he had grown accustomed to drawing out whatever luck he could squeeze from life, but danger and disappointment seemed to favor him more, he had come to think of them almost as eventualities. Maybe that was so because it was <em>him<em>. Honestly! Letting a pampered noble catch him out! He was losing his touch.

None of the guards or the warden had seen fit to tell him what was in store for him; would this be the time he didn't escape relatively intact? Had that extraordinary intervention by the archer two days ago been all for naught?

Earlier, when the guards had led him to his cell, he had caught a glimpse of the three boys from the night before imprisoned behind a set of bars of their own. Vaguely, he wondered what they had been arrested for, as the youngest had been very adamant in insisting that a 'Lord Robin' would come save them. Allan thought about telling the kid just how far hope got you—nowhere.

The clattering of footsteps drew his attention, and he wearily fixed his eyes in the direction of the staircase. The jailer rounded the corner, followed by two men.

'Bring out the Locksley lot," the jailer said, tossing the keys to the nearest guard.

Just then, the firelight fell on the other men's faces, and Allan straightened. _That one on the left can't possibly be…_

Allan scrambled to his feet and over to the door of his cell. "Hey, jailer! Jailer! That's me!" The dour man hardly looked at him. "Jailer, aren't you listenin'? I'm from Locksley!"

The three men disappeared into an adjourning room while the guards congregated around the cell holding the three younger men, ushering them into the same room. Allan couldn't help but give a delighted laugh—who knew that the bushy-haired kid's 'Lord Robin' was Allan's rescuer from before?

The guards had exited the other room now, and in short order, Allan persuaded them that he was, indeed, 'from Locksley.' Not the brightest bunch, them.

Shortly, the trio of Locksley peasants were yanked out and led away. Allan eyed them speculatively. They looked fired up; things must have gone well. The guards herded him through to the adjacent room and Allan plastered a bright smile on his face, nodding to 'his lord.'

"You're not from Locksley," Robin said flatly.

Aware of the jailer, Allan pitched his voice low. "I know, but you saved me once before…"

"That was a long way from Nottingham. Here I am known."

His Lordship wasn't making this any easier, was he? "Look, you're savin' those others, you'll save me. For my wife…my newborn babe." Allan trained a pleading expression on the man.

The second man - who stood behind the chair Robin sat in, probably a servant, then—spoke up. "You said your wife was expecting."

_Oops._ "Nope, she 'ad it!" Allan tried.

"Your lies today may be your undoing," snapped Robin.

Allan cast a quick look back to the jailer in exasperation. _Must he blow _all_ my cover? Couldn't he give me a little warning if he was going to switch to being all high-and-mighty?_

The lord continued, "I cannot save the others, and now I fear you'll share their fate."

"What fate?" Allan asked with a sinking feeling.

Robin looked down, then heaved himself to his feet and brushed past Allan, followed by his manservant. Puzzled, and with a growing sense of unease, Allan stared after them. Then, turning to the jailer, he said, "I'm not from Locksley. Did, did I say Locksley? There's been a mistake 'ere, I-I'm from Rochdale. Rochdale! That's why they call me Allan A Dale!"

The jailer looked at him doubtfully. "Yeah? And I'm from Wild Wales."

"No—"

The man grabbed his shirt-front and flung him towards the awaiting guards. "Throw him in with the Locksley lot!"

The guards seemed to take the jailer literally, and proceeded to unceremoniously thrust him into a new cell, banging the door shut behind him and locking it.

Allan made a show of brushing himself off as he sat down in a corner and looked over to the other occupants of the cell. "'Ey up, lads," he said with a crooked smile.

All three looked back at him wordlessly.

"C'mon. I'm not bein' funny, but what else 'ave we got to do in 'ere till they tell us what they got planned for us 'sides a little conversation?"

At his mention of their impending punishment, two of the boys looked away. The third, the older of the two brothers, however, continued to stare at him fiercely. "We're to hang." He finally said.

Allan swallowed hard. Now it was _his_ turn to look away. The room lapsed into silence, each of them absorbed in their own thoughts.

He was an idiot. Allan berated himself for ever entertaining the thought that a lord would deign to help lowly peasants, let alone someone like him. The events of two days prior had clearly been an anomaly, and Allan had allowed the altogether _strangeness_ of the occurrence to cloud his judgment. He had been even more foolish than the lad presently burying his head in his arms, to who a short time ago Allan had privately chastised for daring to embrace the poisonous idea of hope, of putting belief in another. Allan had thought he'd learned that lesson long ago, but here he sat. And now, come morning, he would…Allan dug his fingernails into his palms and let his eyes fall shut. Tomorrow he was going to die.

Without any distractions or disruptions from his thoughts, Allan finally faced the truth. It seemed like Death's shadow had followed him his entire life, chasing him no matter where he went. He had tried to convince himself that if he never contemplated the reality of it, never stopped running from it, he could somehow elude it completely. Yet, at last, it seemed its sinuous tendrils had ensnared him for good.

In their cramped hole of a prison cell, the hours between them and their execution stretched and waned, warping into an indeterminate quantity that was both a blessing and a curse. The younger of the two brothers and the other boy had long since fallen asleep, and Allan expected the oldest of his companions to drift off at some point as well. Sleep would be impossible - and frankly ill-advised—for him tonight. However, the dark-haired young man across from him remained alert. Was it for similar reasons as his own? Allan didn't think so. The boy looked almost like he was…sitting watch over his younger brother, as though no matter what the morning - whenever that was - would bring, for tonight he would make sure his brother was safe. There was no fear or anxiety visible on his face, only vigilance and concern for the other.

Softly, Allan broke the silence. "What's 'is name, your brother?"

The gaze the boy leveled on him was sharp, but after a pause, he seemed to accept the question at face value and turned back to the sleeping boy beside him. "Luke."

"And yours?"

"Will. Why?"

Allan shrugged, "Jus' curious. I'm Allan, by the way."

Will nodded.

"Doesn't seem right, 'anging three kids. What didya all do anyway?"

Will gave him another long look. "Stole some flour for people who are so tax-laden they can't afford to feed their own children, let alone themselves."

Allan snorted, "Well, at least they're doin' us in for the same thing. Mind you, they're deranged, but no less than consistent."

Will didn't reply. Allan shifted restlessly, but ultimately couldn't keep quiet. "'Ow can you be so blasted _calm_?"

"People were starving." He said this as if it were obvious.

Allan almost scoffed, but something stopped him. This Will was an odd one, for sure, but for some reason that Allan couldn't put his finger on, he couldn't bring himself to refute him. Brought up short, Allan fell quiet, and Will returned to his vigil.

* * *

><p>As they were underground, there were no windows in the cells to warn them of the growing light of day. So when the key clanged in the lock on their door, Allan jerked forward from his slumped position, where he had finally begun to drowse. Roughly, the group of guards pulled them to their feet, bound their hands behind them, and pushed them toward the flight of stairs.<p>

It was a short journey to their destination: immediately outside the dungeon door was a short corridor connected to an arched alcove that opened to the stairs leading down into the courtyard. As they came out into daylight, Allan took in the surroundings, and quickly his gaze glided across the way to the main steps of the castle, where Robin stood prominently. Allan frowned.

Next to Robin stood a richly-dressed man, who addressed the milling crowd. "Robin of Locksley, Earl of Huntingdon, recently returned from the Holy War—"

They had reached the bottom of the steps now, and with only the jailer and his assistant guiding them out to the gallows, Allan made one more bid for freedom, darting in the opposite direction of the others. They had stupidly left the portcullis up to allow the townspeople passage into the courtyard—

The pincer-like hand of the jailer grasped his shoulder and hauled him bodily to the gallows, thrusting him up first onto the platform.

"-with a personal commendation from the King himself, will read the proclamation. Enjoy."

One of the jailer's men arranged Allan atop one of the four wooden stools, bringing him face-to-face with the loop of rope in front of him. To the side, Robin's voice rang out. "Let it be heard and known about the lands and realms of Richard, His Grace, King of England, that on this, the twenty-sixth day of April, in the year of our Lord 1192, the following men having been tried under law and found guilty: Benedict Giddens of Locksley, Luke Scarlett of Locksley, Will Scarlett of Locksley, Allan A Dale of Locksley. These men have been sentenced to hang by a rope until they are dead."

A sack was plunged over Allan's head and the rope placed securely around his neck while a drum started to beat slowly somewhere behind him. All of his senses were cut off with the exception of his hearing, and he realized suddenly all that remained was the order that would kill him. The fatal words hung in the air, unspoken, taunting him with their power. All at once, a chill ran down the length of his body and he was shivering violently, uncontrollably; a buzzing sort of noise rang in his ears from the lack of uttered words, and the darkness inside the sack pressed in against him, prematurely suffocating him. No, this couldn't be it. This couldn't be the end. _Please—_

"Wait!" The sudden cry rent the air and Allan froze.

"Oh, nah, nah, nah. Please don't kill my brother, my little baby, my inbred _cousin_!" The second voice belonged to the man situated next to Robin. Allan guessed this must be the Sheriff of Nottingham. Was someone actually going to attempt to stop their execution?

"On behalf of Anthony, our bishop, I claim benefit of clergy for these men. They cannot hang."

"These are not holy men. These people cannot plead the cloth. Get on with it."

Allan's breath hitched in his throat, but the first voice went on to declare that he had come to them the previous night and, they having repented, the bishop had conferred on each of them the title of 'novice-novice.' There was a lull in the argument. Allan's toes curled in his boots, waiting.

At last, the Sheriff spoke, "Novice-novices, hm? How novel. Well, hang them, and arrest him!"

All feeling rushed out of Allan, only dully did he register the beat of the drum starting up again. His arms and legs had gone numb and if it were not for the rope around his throat, he might have collapsed. All he was aware of was the mind-numbing panic and the helpless fluttering of his heart in the place his chest must be. It was in this whirl of emotion and alarm that the stool was kicked out from beneath him and his full weight was dropped on his neck. Instinctively, he gasped air in where there was no passage for it, while his legs flailed about uselessly and his wrists strained against their bonds. The rope clawed and chafed unbearably against his neck, squeezing the breath and life from him. Abruptly, the darkness became more complete and he was falling…

Falling…

Allan slammed into the rough-hewn planks of the platform. The sudden release of his agony disoriented him and he lay prone for several moments while he sucked in precious air and the world rushed back to him. The first thing he was conscious of was the roar of the crowd and a still louder voice rising over the din.

"—committed no crime worth more than a spell in the stocks. Will you tolerate this injustice? I, for one, will not!"

_Robin?_

Hands grabbed him, pulling the rope and sack off his head and dragging him off the podium. He staggered a few steps, blinking against the sudden light. The three others were also being helped off by a man in robes and Will and Luke's father motioned them all toward the open gateway. The guards were starting to take action now against the rebelling populace, and Allan grabbed a liberated halberd and began to push his way through the tumult of friends and foes.

Several clashes later, Allan looked up to see the portcullis less than ten feet away. At that moment, a man he recalled as Robin's manservant raced down the nearby stairs, yelling, "Robin! This way!" As Allan knocked his last opponent to the ground and ditched his unwieldy weapon, Robin reached their cluster and they dashed out of the castle and down the twisting streets of Nottingham.

Finally, they turned one last corner and rushed up to two tethered horses that must have belonged to Robin and his man. The servant hurried over to the town's main gate. "Master, archers! What do we do?"

There were indeed a large line of archers stationed behind a hastily-constructed railing that blocked the other end of the drawbridge. Robin gave them a quick perusal and a wicked gleam flashed in his green eyes. He gestured for his man to climb up behind him on his horse and for Will and Allan to take the other, and said, "Let's give them something to shoot at."

Hardly believing they were doing this, but just about willing to do whatever Robin proposed at this point, Allan obeyed and clambered up behind Will. They wheeled their horses around and charged out the gates. And when they leaped over the archers, arrows flying everywhere but somehow not hitting any of their marks, Allan could only shake his head in amazement. He may not understand this Robin, but it might just be worth it to stick with him.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: To those of you now wondering what this fic is all about, here's a little background information:<p>

This is essentially a story about Allan's journey throughout the series. His side of the story, as it were. It will contain the main line of events from the series told from Allan's POV, interwoven with his own experiences and 'missing scenes' that were never fully explored in the show. The concept is very similar to what a parallel novel is, to give an example. The growth and changes Allan makes over the course of the series were always very fascinating to me, so I hope to illustrate how Allan developed into the 'good man' he was always capable of being!

On a side-note, I'm sorry for the weird formatting of a few of the em dashes, apparently a certain fanfic-hosting site is not a fan of them ;)

if you've made it through this chapter, I thank you for taking the time to give it a read. If you feel so inclined, I'd love to hear what you think!


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